The Ninety Days of Genevieve Read Free Page A

David was correct in his description of Sinclair's sexual preferences she was certainly not his type. She was gaining a reputation for efficiency at her job but she certainly could not be considered a status symbol. And she had no intention of pretending to be stupid either, just to humour him. Furthermore, she realised, she had made no arrangements to meet him. George Fullerton had stayed with her while Sinclair went down in the lift on his own. She doubted if he would contact her at work, but it would be easy for him to find out her private telephone number. Would he do it?
    But the phone did not ring, and she began to wonder if she really had been a fool to take him seriously. Sex for a signature? It was like something out of a film. Perhaps David had been right. He was just playing power games? Perhaps it was his idea of a joke. If it was, did she care? She had to admit that she did. Not, she told herself quickly, that she was particularly looking forward to obliging him in bed. She could take that or leave it. It was strictly a career move. She needed a break. She wanted to prove that she could win clients.
    Barringtons currently had an exciting creative division, but they would not keep their inventive young designers and writers if they did not expand. Sinclair's account would be the first step. And if Barringtons succeeded, Genevieve knew she would succeed with them. Sinclair could give her that. She stared at the phone and willed him to pick it up, to call her, to suggest a meeting. Anything.
    The phone stayed silent.
    Genevieve had just run a bath and the perfumed water was gently warming her. She lifted one leg and stretched it, smoothing the creamy foam that clung to her skin. Why did the gleam of water always make your body look sexy? Was that why so many men liked giving women an oil massage?
    The phone rang. She reached for it, unhurriedly, trying to guess who it might be. At this time of night it was probably her brother, Philip. He knew she worked long hours and usually phoned late - at least when he thought about it. He hadn't rung her for ages. She prepared to tell him off.
    'Miss Loften?' She recognised the voice immediately, with its combination of authority and attractive depth.
    'Mr Sinclair?' She hoped she sounded neutral. She had no intention of letting him know how relieved she was to hear from him at last. 'I thought you'd forgotten our deal.'
    'I don't forget anything,' he said. 'I had a few arrangements to make. Now listen. Go to 43 Harmond Street tomorrow and collect a box. You wear whafs inside it under an outfit of your own choice when we meet for our discussion. Just the items in the box. Nothing else. Understand?'
    So he's into sexy underwear, she thought. But he sounded as if he was giving orders to his secretary and she wasn't sure she liked it. With her free hand she smoothed the creamy foam over her breasts so that her nipples were just visible then submerged herself in the warmth of the perfumed water again. She thought: If you were here now, Mr Sinclair, I'd make you change your tone.
    She decided to make some kind of protest against being dictated to, if only to see how he would react. 'Wait a minute,' she said. 'I'm not sure I'll have the time go anywhere tomorrow. I've got two meetings and ...'
    'Make time,' he said abruptly.
    'And if I can't?' she returned, coolly.
    'The deal's off,' he said.
    'Now listen,' she began.
    'No,' he interrupted. 'You listen. This isn't the office. This is just the two of us, and I'm the one who calls the shots. If you don't think you're going to like it, back out now.' His voice softened slightly, and she imagined his mouth with that slightly sardonic smile. 'Try it my way,' he cajoled. 'You know you're curious.'
    She was. She was curious about the kind of garments he would expect her to wear. Frilly knickers? The perennial male favourite, a suspender belt and seamed stockings? Open crotch panties? A peep-hole bra?
    She stifled a sudden giggle. Surely